Chahat pov :

The sterile corridor outside the operation theatre had never felt so suffocating, so stifling, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath with us. I sat quietly, my hands still faintly trembling, streaked with Hriday’s sir blood that clung to my skin like an unbearable truth. The crimson had seeped into the creases of my palms, dried into delicate veins over my knuckles, but I couldn't bring myself to wipe it away. That blood was proof that he was still there… somewhere beyond the closed theatre doors… still breathing, still fighting. I clutched onto that hope like one clings to the last edge of a cliff, suspended in helplessness.